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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28998717">mother, mother</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/atramento/pseuds/atramento'>atramento</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy Tactics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood Memories, Gen, Headcanon, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:00:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28998717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/atramento/pseuds/atramento</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Asking who Mrs. Bunansa was is much like asking which way the wind will tumble next.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpseBrigadier/gifts">CorpseBrigadier</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s so crowded in here now...” Mustadio muttered as he crawled into the attic-like area of the Bunansa home. More a crawl space than a proper attic, Mustadio still held rather fond memories of hiding up here as a younger lad.</p><p>“Hey dad, I’m gonna be up here!” He called, unsure if Besrudio heard him or not. When he got no answer he shrugged and started pawing through the crates littered around the dusty room. </p><p>His hands paused when he felt a familiar sensation of cold metal against his fingers. “Is that...?” He felt a bit more and smiled when what he was touching became yet more clear in his mind’s eye. “It is!” Mustadio dug in and clutched the prize-to-be firmly into his one hand. </p><p>The object in question was an old popgun, one Mustadio crudely fashioned together himself. “I cannot believe it was in here the whole time!” He let the toy gun rest tenderly in his hands, studying its worn features with only the slightest tendency of appraisal from his gaze. “Can’t believe I thought I had lost it... my first gun.” Mustadio’s eyelids drooped and his smile faded as he recalled more. </p><p>The first gun he had ever made... the first gun he had ever shot... the first gun his mother had entrusted him with. </p><p>His mother was not a topic that came up often. Besrudio would either give half an answer or wince quietly when asked. So instead, Mustadio tried to replace his mother-related questions with the few memories he could recall of her. Such as this little harmless toy contraption. </p><p>
  <em> Really, he was probably too young to be holding any gun. Even a toy one. But she knelt beside him-- she with her warm, tanned skin and bright green... no... hazel? Her eyes were bright and clever, in any case. Mustadio remembered how they twinkled after he followed her instruction on how to properly hold a gun near perfect.  </em>
</p><p>“....Hold the gun close against your shoulder.” Mustadio recited to himself, already adjusting the popgun rifle to his shoulder gently. “Breathe in and out... adjust your aim carefully... and...” POP! The cork shot out and bounced off the wall with a dull, small thud. “Heh...” Mustadio set the toy down to go retrieve the cork. “Still got it.” </p><p>The cork itself was more damaged than the rifle; likely due to the fact that it was indeed replaceable. Mustadio turned it around in his hand, letting the texture rub and grate against his calloused skin. </p><p>
  <em> Lean but muscular arms draw Mustadio close. He’s crying; he accidentally shot himself in the eye with the popgun and the cork hurt!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Oh, Mustadio...” Her tone was gentle yet slightly disappointed-- and that made little Mustadio cry a bit harder. She didn’t seem to realize that she had caused her child an extra sliver of distress... or maybe she didn’t care. “Just glad you didn’t shoot your eye out...” He wanted to cry more but... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But she stroked a single, firm hand over his head once and he felt safe again. Mom was here, mom won’t let that cork hurt him again.  </em>
</p><p>Mustadio was snapped out of his reverie when he heard the distant call of his father from in the workshop. So he hadn’t heard Mustadio a moment ago... </p><p>The young man sighed and inched back to the toy rifle, wedging the cork back inside. “Coming dad!” </p><p>When he did so, he hesitated. Should he bring this back with him? What would his dad say? Would Besrudio even remember the dusty contraption? So many questions Mustadio felt tempted to perhaps resolve now... but at the same time, if his dad did indeed remember... it could make for a painfully silent afternoon. Did he want to risk that for any possible tidbit about his mother?  </p><p>He decided that yes-- yes, he did want to. Inching down the ladder with one hand and holding the fake rifle in the other hand, Mustadio could hear his dad milling in the rest of the house as he descended. </p><p>“Mustadio! Do you know where I set the one wrench?” Besrudio called out, not aware that his son was already approaching the threshold of the room he was in. </p><p>Mustadio leaned on the door frame, popgun tucked under his arm. “Dunno dad.” Besrudio nearly hit his head on the desk he was carefully kneeling under and looked back. </p><p>He saw his son grinning sheepish and holding something. “Sorry dad; I was up in the attic.” Mustadio explained, disembarking from the door frame and strutting over to put the popgun onto the desk before helping his father stand upright again. </p><p>“The attic? What for?” Besrudio’s blonde brows furrowed a slight. When Mustadio didn’t immediately answer, he turned to the toy on the desk. “...for your toy gun?” </p><p>Mustadio felt his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. When I found it among the other old stuff, I had to pull it out.” His father’s expression changing was not an encouraging one. He persisted anyhow. “For memory’s sake. Maybe restore what needs restoring, like the cork. It’s too valuable to--” </p><p>Besrudio’s tone was flat. “It’s a toy gun, son.” The older man sat down and both were silent momentarily as he began tightening a screw into a machine. Mustadio’s expression deepened into a frown. </p><p>“That doesn’t make it any less important to <em> me </em>, dad.” Besrudio did not look up to see the pain in his son’s eyes, instead choosing to lean down more over his work with a grunt. Mustadio frowned more. “You know exactly why I pulled it out of storage, don’t you? You just refuse to answer me or any of my questions huh?!” </p><p>Besrudio let out a sigh. “That’s right. And you’ll learn not to ask such things anymore if you want to live your life a little less bothered. Your mother is a figment of our past for a good reason--” </p><p>“She’s my mom!” Mustadio slammed his fist down onto the desk. “Don’t I have a right to know my own mom?!” Besrudio stopped his tinkering with another and heavier sigh. “Look me in the eyes--” Mustadio motioned to his own eyes for extra effect. “--and tell me that you don’t think I have any right to know who she was!” </p><p>Besrudio forced himself to swivel very slowly away from the contraption he was working on. “Is.” </p><p>Mustadio’s anger broke into slight surprise. “What?” </p><p>“Who your mom <em> is,</em> Mustadio.” Besrudio’s eyes seem unfocused. “She’s still alive out there.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Realizing that no other work would get done today, Besrudio sighed and set aside his tools. He wiped his hands on his trousers and motioned for Mustadio to follow him as he walked slower than usual to a more comfortable seating area. “You have a lot of questions no doubt.” Besrudio leaned back. “I don’t know if I can answer them, but if you listen to what I have to say I might not have any need to answer questions. Alright?” Mustadio nodded. “Alright.” </p><p>“Your mother was...” A sigh filtered between the old man’s teeth. “...She was not an imaginative or nonsensical kind of woman and woe to the person who tried to treat her as some dainty thing.” </p><p>Mustadio snorted softly. “I remember. She hated wearing dresses.” He couldn’t recall a moment in his life where his mother had worn little else but her rough-patterned trousers, with the belt around her thigh. </p><p>“No...” Besrudio pointed at his son. “Your mother hated being treated differently based on whatever she chose to wear. She was free spirited that way.” The finger moved away from Mustadio and Besrudio poked it under his chin as if in thought. “Same as how she hated the idea that she should be treated differently for her heritage.” </p><p>At those words, Mustadio’s brows furrow. “Heritage? What about her heritage?” Seeing as how normally his father clammed up at the mention of his mother, he was taking this rare opportunity to ask-- even though Besrudio had said not to. His father shot him an appropriately stern scowl. </p><p>“I don’t know if you noticed, Mustadio, but your mother could never pass for an Ivalician woman.” </p><p>Mustadio opened his mouth to respond but nothing came to mind. The warm tone of her skin, her bright eyes; these were still what Mustadio conjured inside his head first. But he had not once thought that his mother could be anything but an Ivalician woman. </p><p>He opened his mouth once more but Besrudio beat him to speaking. “She’s Romandan. They know their guns. It was one of the few things she and I could work on together.” Mustadio felt something abstract dissolve inside his body, as if he had just eaten a meal with a fizzing and potent feeling inside. “Not that your mother was uninterested in my many other ideas... but guns were her specialty. She could shoot something off-range at long distances. And that’s precisely why I originally hired her.” </p><p>He hadn’t begun to process the first new piece of knowledge about his mother when his father handed him the next. “You... hired her? Hired her for what?” </p><p>Besrudio’s lips curled into an expression resembling a fond smile, though his was far sadder. “I was in Romanda before you were born, I was looking for a possible lead on some new materials.  The kind of materials few men had seen before-- I needed protection.”</p><p>Seeing his son gape at him, Besrudio chuckled with dark reminisce. “She was undercharging in hopes that anyone would pay for her way out of her small town. I paid her more than enough to make a journey to Ivalice and a possible return trip. I wanted to make certain she’d protect me.” Mustadio responded with a thoughtful noise and leaned forward. </p><p>“How did you know she was... you know... the one?” At this, Besrudio laughed. </p><p>“Ah... to answer you Mustadio, I saw her shooting bottles when I arrived. I just knew then she might be something else. I hope you didn’t mean romantically. I... can’t answer that.” Besrudio made his saddened smile once more. “Not in a mere afternoon such as this.” </p><p>Mustadio looked dolefully at his pop gun. He didn’t really want to know any further about his father and mother’s courtship. He had bigger questions anyhow. But did he have the courage to ask them? </p><p>“Dad...” Mustadio began, staring intently at a single dent in the popgun. </p><p>Besrudio was staring at him now. “Yes? Is that all of your questions answered?” He seemed calmer than when Mustadio first posed the idea of talking about his mother at the very least. </p><p>Mustadio shook his head, expression gradually turning to one of pain and of quieted tears that seemed poised to polish the toy in his lap. “Dad...” He began again, trying to steady his voice. “Dad... why did mom..” He closed his eyes and forced his voice to choke past the tears. </p><p>“Why did mom leave?” Besrudio’s eyes widen. </p><p><em> “Why did mom leave you...?” </em> Mustadio continued, not giving his father a chance to properly answer. He was crying profusely without a single shake in his body. “Why did she leave the workshop, or Goug, or your dreams, or--” He was clutching the popgun hard enough for a weakened joint of the gun to bend the barrel slightly upward. Besrudio’s eyes bugged out a little more. “Why did she leave without saying goodbye, why did she leave this house and these people and--” Mustadio finally started to shake as he clutched the gun harder and it screeched with a sort of pain that only metal could convey. </p><p>Mustadio grit his teeth and a sharp noise shot from his throat as fresh tears began.<em>“ </em> <em> Why did she teach me to shoot anyway?! Was she a contracted employee and I just an unexpected side venture?!” </em> Mustadio bawled.<em>"Why did she leave </em><b><em>me</em></b><em>?!"</em></p><p>The gun was tossed away in the fit Mustadio was having but Besrudio ignored it to lift to his feet with his cane and hobble over to his grieving child. Mustadio looked up at his dad with a pair of bloodshot eyes. </p><p>“...<em> Was I not good enough of a son for her to stay around?” </em></p><p>
  <span>Besrudio knelt beside his son and rested a hand on his shoulder as he continued to cry in pained silence. “Mustadio... it doesn’t matter if you’re ‘good enough’ at something or not. What she did... leaving you so young... it wasn’t right. And I never forgave her for it.” He let his gaze drift down to the arm of Mustadio’s chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never forgave myself either. It was both of our faults. Your mother grew tired of my dreams. I grew tired of her trying to bring me to reality. We... came undone from each other. But we never should have let you feel that you did anything wrong to deserve the aftermath of our marriage.” Besrudio and Mustadio locked eyes-- the troubled gaze of a child meeting his father’s calm, accepting stare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besrudio then clutched his son’s shoulder a little despite the discomfort it was to remain on his knee. “It’ll... It’ll be okay son. If you cry, I won’t be mad.” </span>
</p>
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